It was the first Saturday of October, and Hogwarts hummed above with the distant chaos of students enjoying their freedom. Down here, where the candles floated in greenish light, the only sounds were the bubbling of cauldrons and the scratch of quills on parchment.

Y/n had chosen a corner table in the Potions classroom—close enough to the heat of the brewing stations, far enough from the clusters of Slytherins who whispered in knots. The morning detention had been a gift, really. A quiet excuse to exist outside the common room's judgment.

Severus Snape slipped in, silent as smoke. His robes hung loose on his lanky frame, his hair a curtain of black that hid his expression. He didn't look at anyone—just moved toward the corner opposite Y/n, a stack of books already cradled in his arms.

He sat. He didn't greet. His quill was already moving, his presence a deliberate absence.

The candles flickered. The cauldron at Y/n's table simmered. Severus turned a page, the sound like a small thunder.